Midnight Honor

sheer stone walls too steep for livestock to climb. Countless herds rustled by countless generations of MacGillivrays and MacBeans had been hidden here along with crates of untaxed cargo and black-market goods brought in by smugglers.
    John had made a small fortune over the years, adding on to the tidy fortunes his father and grandfather had made before him. He was likely the first reiver with a conscience, however, for he knew these cattle would eventually go to feed the prince's army, and he would be lucky if he earned a smile by way of thanks.
    How many fortunes could a man of simple means spend in one lifetime anyway? He had a good horse beneath him, warm clothes on his back, a full belly, and a roof over his head. With that and the right to come and goas he pleased, what more did he need, what more did he want?
    Wild Rhuad Annie's face came unbidden into his mind and he clamped his teeth down over the butt of his cigar.
    He had vowed not to think about her and, by God, he would not. In fact, he planned to finish up here with the cattle and ride straight on through to Clunas. If his horse didn't break its neck in a frozen bog hole, he would be there by morning, and by noon, if luck was with him, Elizabeth's legs would be around his waist and she would be helping him forget he loved another man's wife.
    If only. Was that not what Annie had said? If only he had met Elizabeth first, for she was a lively, dark-haired beauty with a quick smile and a body that gave him no end of pleasure. Like him, she had no fondness for games or pretenses, which was why they usually had their clothes off within an hour of being in each other's company. He knew she loved him. He'd been her first and only lover, and it shamed him that he had waited so long to speak to her father. What had he been waiting for—a miracle?
    Elizabeth would make a fine wife, give him fine handsome sons, and he would never give her any reason to doubt she was the most important woman in his life. The
only
woman in his life. And she would be.
    “John! Alloo, John!”
    He frowned, looking over his shoulder at the sound of pounding hoofbeats, and recognized Gillies MacBean by the stocky upper body and low silhouette in the saddle.
    “Gillies, I told ye to take the men to Moy Hall. What the devil are ye doin' back here?”
    “Aye.” Gillies gasped and clutched the knot of reins to his chest as the horse skidded to an icy stop. “'Twas the devil. A devil by the name o' Blakeney. He's taken the whole bluidy garrison out o' Fort bluidy George an' gone tae attack Moy Hall. He aims tae take the prince by surprise.”
    He gasped out more, but MacGillivray had already dug his heels into his horse's flanks and was tearing hell for leather back across the moor. The roar of rage was like thunder in his throat, startling the men who were driving thecattle, causing most of them to stop in their tracks and race after him.
    They were half an hour from Dunmaglass, another half an hour from Loch Moy.
    MacGillivray roared again and bent his head forward over the stallion's neck, his blond hair streaming back like a second mane.
    Colonel Blakeney's men had been nervous from the outset. They had all heard the rumors about the huge Jacobite army descending on Inverness, and not one of them believed a commanding general like Lord George Murray would leave his prince alone, unprotected at a country estate less than ten miles from a sizeable garrison of government troops. Some of them had been with Cope at Prestonpans and knew firsthand the treachery of the Highlanders. They knew if a report said a hundred Scots were on the road, it usually meant a thousand. If it said they were in Edinburgh, they could as likely be knocking on the gates of London. Lord George was a master of deception, a brilliant strategist, and his men would walk through hellfire on his orders. Moreover, they did not fight like proper soldiers. They lurked in trees and crouched behind bushes; they waited in the darkness and the mist, then came screaming out of nowhere, their great bloody broadswords aimed straight for the heart.
    Fully half of Blakeney's men were English. They suffered from the cold and the damp; they thought the food loathsome and the townspeople hardly less barbaric than the savages they had been sent to fight. The other half were Scots, a goodly number raised by the chiefs who supported the Hanover monarchy, yet they were not eager to fight their own kinsmen. Names like Cameron and